Reunion
by r4ven3
Summary: A(nother) post S.10 AU fic ... in 6 chapters, beginning in 2016. The inspiration for this fic came from a review (by NatesDate) for an old fic, in which she commented on the improbability both of Ruth dying from being stabbed by a little bit of glass, and of Harry not being extradited to the US after Ruth's death'. The back story is what drives this.
1. Chapter 1

Ipswich, UK – mid September, 2016:

Ruth had decided to process one more order before she broke for lunch, and she had just opened the order page on her desktop, when through the open door, she heard a voice she'd come to accept she'd never hear again.

"I wonder can you help me with something."

He spoke quietly – to Gabby, who was on the shop floor, assisting customers, and hopefully selling the occasional book or two – but to Ruth's ears, she heard him shouting, calling for help, close to tears. _Come on! _he'd called …... impatient, terrified. That was the last time she'd heard his voice. Until now.

"It's a personal request," he went on, and Ruth sat still, in her chair, her eyes on her monitor, seeing nothing. "I've been told this woman works here."

Ruth listened for a moment while Gabby hesitated. "Yes ….. that's Ruth," she said. "She's -"

And that is when Ruth suddenly stood up, sending her chair rolling backwards across the office floor. She wanted to run to the door and fling it open, but she walked quietly through the doorway, and into the shop, and there he was, standing at the counter, showing Gabby a small photograph …... a photograph of her.

They stood for a long moment, he with the photograph still between his fingers, she with her hand resting on the corner of the counter, and their eyes held – hazel with grey-blue.

"I'll just see to this other …... thing," Gabby said, and quickly disappeared to the back of the shop, somewhere behind the rows and rows of antiquarian books.

They barely noticed her leave. All they could see was each other. They could have been the only two people left on earth.

"I'm about to take lunch," Ruth said, and then remembering who it was she was talking to, "Harry. I just have one more order to process, and then ….. if you'd like …... we can have lunch together. I always eat at _Marcel's_. You'll see it – it's just down the -"

"I saw it," he says, his voice quiet, low, his eyes never leaving hers. "I walked past it on my way here, and I thought …... maybe …. we could …..."

"Yes, we can. If you'd like that."

He nodded and then smiled. "I would …... like that."

"I'll be no more than fifteen minutes." _What was she saying? Fifteen minutes? She'd process this order at lightning speed. She'd take no more than five._

And somehow, Ruth was back in her office, while the bell dinged as Harry closed the shop door behind him. She hoped he was as good as his word. She hadn't any of his contact details. For him to have walked into her life again, and then maybe walk right out again would be nothing short of a tragedy, and she'd already suffered enough of those. They both had.

* * *

Ruth saw him straight away. He had chosen a table at the back, the one which overlooked the back garden …... her favourite table. _How did he know that? _ He stood as she approached, pulled out her chair, and then waited while she sat. Always the gentleman …... just one of the many things about him which she'd missed.

Missed was altogether the wrong word. Yearned for, wept over, longed for …... She'd believed that she'd successfully moved on with her life. After all, almost five years was a long time in anyone's reckoning. One sentence spoken by him had been all it took, and she was back there, where they'd last seen one another, with her offering him a life after MI-5 …... and then it had all been taken from them. It was as though someone had thrown a live grenade into their lives. She had ended up in hospital, and the next morning early, the CIA had taken Harry from his home, and within two hours he was on a private flight to the US …... to serve time for the death of Jim Coaver …... and she'd heard nothing more from him …... until now.

After two months, she'd returned to work at Whitehall, but it was never the same. Her regular visits to Section D, with Erin Watts as section head (she'd almost hyperventilated the first time she'd seen Erin sitting in Harry's office ... in Harry's chair) were painful, only reminding her of what she'd lost. Ruth only remained in the job for another two very difficult years. And then she'd begun searching for Harry, and what she found had her cooling her heels, and determining to create a new life for herself. She chose Ipswich, but only because a good friend from university had thought of her when planning to turn a run down book shop into a sourcing centre for antiquarian and out of print books, both through a shop front, and online. It was her new life – hardly the new life she'd imagined for she and Harry – but it was better than being reminded daily that Harry was somewhere in the US, and that he'd moved on. So …... what was he doing here, four years and almost eleven months after he'd been extradited to serve time for Jim Coaver's death?

"It's good to see you, Harry," she said, wanting to say more, but not knowing where to begin. There were a myriad beginning points, all of them leading to the same questions.

_Why are you here? _

_Do you still care for me?_

For a man who had suffered detention in the US, he looked rather well, but then …... he'd had someone save him. She'd heard about it, which is why she had backed off, and left him to his new life. He appeared thinner, and there were a few more lines, but when he smiled, she saw the old Harry, and her stomach tipped in the same way it always had. How was it possible for things to not have changed in that time? By anyone's estimation, five years is a long time.

"I looked everywhere for you," he said, "and then – out of the blue – I ran into Calum Reed. Even Malcolm had no idea where you'd gone."

"I wanted to hide," she said, looking up at him over the menu. "Calum was the only one I told. I'll have the crab sandwich. If you like seafood, it's very good."

"I've already ordered the minestrone, and a coffee for myself, and a pot of tea for you." He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "What were you hiding from, Ruth?"

She took a while to answer. No-one had ever asked her that question. "From everything. From the Service, from London, from us …... what we never made it to having …... from my …... hopes and dreams." Her last words were almost whispered. After all, it no longer mattered, did it? She had little idea why she was there, with him. It was the very slowest form of torture.

She just needed to know that he was well, and …... happy. Sitting across from her, gazing at her like perhaps he shouldn't be, he looked happy.

"Are you ….. happy?" she asked, not really wanting to hear his answer.

He still watched her across the table, his hands still clasped. Ruth noticed his knuckles whitening, like he wasn't quite as relaxed as he appeared.

"I am now," he said quietly, watching her closely, unclasping his hands, and leaning just a little bit closer towards her.

"I eventually lost contact with Calum," Ruth said, looking away from Harry, having forgotten how intense his stare could be, and how uncomfortable she felt under his gaze. "How did he find you?"

"I ran into him. Literally. I was in London only last week, and I was heading off to meet my daughter, and there he was, walking down the street towards me. He saw me before I saw him. What are the chances of that happening? He's left the service. Did you know?"

Ruth shook her head, already amazed at the intersection of events which had led to she and Harry being in that café …... together.

"Last I knew he'd gone to the Middle East with Six. I think he'd had his heart broken, so he thought he'd – I don't know – throw his life away. I'm glad he made it home."

"He's working with a private firm. He says it's much safer, but also a bit boring. He has a lady in his life now."

Harry smiled at her, and she smiled back, warmed by the news about Calum. She was beginning to feel less tense, more relaxed, allowing the next group of words to leave her mouth.

"Back when I was about to leave the Home Office, I got Calum to do a search …... to find you. I had to know. I …... needed to know …... what had happened to you. I …... he found that you had been released from …."

"I was lucky …. relatively speaking. It was one of those initiatives of the Obama administration, an attempt to win the hearts and minds of the British, by releasing British prisoners from detention. In reality, it was only a token act, but I can't complain. I …... was luckier than most. I had …... support when I got out of detention."

_Support is one word for it._

"Calum told me ….. Harry …... that you'd married your support worker. He said you'd settled down with her. That was the last I heard, and that's when I …... stopped trying to find you."

She looked up to see Harry's face …... impassive, unchanged. Had she said the wrong thing? Maybe the information was wrong. Perhaps Harry wanted to keep his marriage a secret. Perhaps something had happened …... after all, here he was, on his own, with no wedding ring on his finger.

It was at that moment that their lunch order arrived, and for the next half hour, they ate, and exchanged observations about the food, Ipswich, Ruth's job, the book shop …... all less likely to touch the sensitive emotional triggers which were just beneath the surface for them both.

"I have to get back soon," Ruth said, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"We need to talk, Ruth. I didn't come looking for you just for a catch up. This was not a social call. There is a lot I haven't told you …... that I _need_ to tell you. Calum told me that …... you're still single. Is that true?"

_Why does that even matter? If he is unavailable to her, why does he even care?_

"That's true. I work, I go home. I eat, sleep, read, shop, go to the theatre, walk. That's …... that's my life."

"Can we meet later? After work? Ruth …... I really need to talk to you. Not here, not at a restaurant."

Suddenly, the fact of his marriage – or not – seemed irrelevant. They needed to talk, even if it was simply to draw a line under what could have been …... what _should_ have been, had disaster not so cruelly ripped them apart. Ruth grabbed her bag from where it sat, on the floor beside her feet. She put it on her lap, and dug around in it until she'd found her house keys. No matter what had happened to each of them in the intervening years, she still trusted Harry more than she trusted anyone alive.

Handing her house keys to him, she arranged to meet him at her place after work. She hoped she wasn't opening herself to further heartache.

"I should be home by six," she said, standing. "Here's the address, as well as my phone number, should you change your mind."

"I won't," he said quietly, as she scribbled her details on a piece of note paper. "I'll be there. Is it alright if I let myself in? It will only be so I can get out of the cold."

"Of course. That's why I've given you my keys. Turn on the heater when you get there. I hate getting home to a cold flat."

She quickly left the cafe without looking back. She didn't have his phone number. Stupid ….. she should have asked. She was only just back in the book shop, settled at her desk, when her mobile phone rang.

"Ruth speaking."

"Now you have my number," he said, his voice edging on laughter. "Just in case you change your mind, and want to tell me to get lost."

"I won't," she said. "I won't change my mind …... Harry," and then she quickly hung up.

It was then that Ruth remembered something. When she moved from London to Ipswich, she left her old life, and all reminders of her old life behind. She sold all her furniture, and gave the bulk of her clothing and jewellery to charity shops. She needed to begin her life over. In her flat in Ipswich, Harry would find very little of a personal nature …... except for one thing. A photograph. Back when Colin Wells was still alive – it would have been his last Christmas - 2005 – he had taken photographs during the Grid Christmas party. One evening late, she had rifled the drawers of Colin's desk, and stolen the one photograph she'd wanted to keep for herself . Harry and she had been deep in conversation, and he'd been regaling her with stories of what the service had been like when he was young. One such story had them both laughing, so that when Colin had called out, _Give me a _s_mile, guys_, Harry had smiled right at the camera, while she had smiled up at Harry. That photograph reminded her of the time when she and Harry were just beginning to acknowledge that they had feelings for one another.

What would Harry think when he sees that photograph, within it's magnetic frame, the only photograph on her fridge door, the only photograph on open display in her house?

She was about to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks to readers, and to reviewers. I hope your enthusiasm for this fic will be justified as the story unfolds.**_

* * *

"You're a wonderful cook," Ruth said with a smile, as she ate the last of the rice which had accompanied her Chicken Tikku Massala, part of the Indian dinner Harry had ordered in.

He smiled back, and topped up both their glasses with red wine.

"You really don't want to try my cooking, Ruth. I never graduated beyond spag bol, and that's with ready made sauce."

They'd been almost silent while eating, and both recognised that they still had a lot to talk about.

"Harry," she began, "are you driving back to London tonight? It's just that we've already had a bottle of wine between us."

"I've booked a room at a hotel in Ipswich. I live less than an hour away, but I didn't want to risk driving home when I'm tired."

"You could have stayed here. I have a spare bedroom."

He smiled across the small round dining table at her. Ruth had noticed that he seemed much more relaxed than he'd ever been. _Maybe that's married life._

"I didn't want to assume anything, Ruth."

"You said you live …... close by."

"I …... when I returned to the UK -"

"When was that?"

"Fourteen months ago. I bought a cottage …... an hour from here." Harry smiled at her, hoping she would remember her promise to him, on the day that everything had collapsed in on them. "It's not your cottage. It's outside a village, hidden away down a lane, behind a grove of trees. It has two bedrooms, and …... it's ….. Ruth, what is it?"

Ruth had suddenly felt a surging of grief from deep within her. _A cottage in Suffolk? Two bedrooms? Hidden away? That was meant to be her cottage. That was meant for them – Harry and Ruth – not Harry and Her! Damn you, Harry. Damn you and your new life!_

"I ….. all I can think of is that I was planning to buy a cottage in Suffolk, and that you and I …..."

She couldn't say any more. She didn't want to cry. Not in front of Harry. He'd already been through so much. She held her hand over her mouth, holding in her grief.

"Ruth …... I know what you're thinking ….."

"How can you? How can you possibly know how I feel …... what I'm thinking?" Ruth was annoyed that as she spoke, her voice had become angry, even shrill.

"I know that you're thinking about the cottage that we were meant to live in, and I know that you lost the chance to buy it. Ruth ….. I bought the cottage I'm living in to replace that one. It's -"

"But you bought it to share with another woman!"

"This is what I need to talk about with you."

"Why would I want to hear about that?"

Ruth got up from her chair, and turned to the kitchen counter, where she flipped on the electric kettle, and began to make tea. She was shocked by the power of her own reaction …... her intense jealousy, and after all this time, too. She was searching for a teapot, when she felt the warmth of Harry's body right behind her. He wasn't touching her, but he was standing close to her, and she felt him reach over her shoulder, and take the teapot from an overhead cupboard.

"When you've made the tea, come and sit down," he said gently. "There's so much you don't know. I promise that you will want to hear this …... if that photo you have of the two of us on your fridge means what I think it does."

By the time Ruth had made the pot of tea, and had placed it and two cups, and milk and sugar on the table between them, she had calmed down. She knew that she was making assumptions, leaping to conclusions. She tended to do that.

Harry poured tea into both their cups, and then he added milk and sugar to each. He checked before he added milk and sugar to her cup, just to make sure.

"You have it the same way as you always did," he noted quietly.

"You remember?"

"Of course. Did you remember how I had mine?"

"Yes. You now have less sugar. You used to have three sugars, and now you have just one."

"I lost my taste for sugar while in detention. The food was very bland, and we were allowed only water for much of the time."

"Was it …... awful?"

"Yes, Ruth, it was a terrible time. I can't tell you most of it. I _don't want_ to tell you about most of it. I don't wish to hurt you."

"You don't wish to _hurt_ me? Harry ….. it was you who were hurt. I …... all I had to endure was living a life without the chance of you returning to me. By comparison, that's …..."

"Do you want to know what kept me alive? What kept me sane? Do you know the image which I kept up here -" He tapped his head with his forefinger, "so deeply ingrained that no-one could reach it, no-one could take it away from me?"

Ruth slowly shook her head, although by this time, she was getting some idea.

"You, Ruth. I had an image of you at the Thames estuary, smiling at me with those blue eyes, the wind blowing your hair in your face, asking me to leave the service with you. _That's_ what kept me alive, and that's why I'm here now. I'm here to offer you what you offered me five years ago."

Ruth began shaking her head. _ This is not happening. This is not true. Harry must have brain damage. Has he forgotten he has a wife_?

"I'm not married, Ruth. I never married. Apart from Jane, of course. I never married Hope."

"_Hope_?" Ruth had never asked Calum the woman's name, and he had not offered to tell her. What she didn't know couldn't hurt her.

"This is what I needed to explain to you. I don't wish us to have secrets between us. It's the secrets that have done so much damage in the past. Her name was Hope McKay."

_Was? He just said was. _

Harry continued. "She worked voluntarily as a support worker for those being released from detention. Hope was a year or two older than me, and she was a widow, so we …... we hit it off. We understood one another, we both understood loss. I was ….. a mess when I was released. Early in my detention I was beaten, electrodes attached to my testicles - the usual thing - but I'd suffered that before. What did the most damage was being forced to spend long stretches in isolation. They'd put me in a plain cell, with no windows, and just a narrow cot, and a toilet, and I'd either have to stay in there for days at a time with the light on, or with the light off. Sometimes it was absolutely silent, and at other times, they played music through loudspeakers – yes, country music, or Indian music – I can never again listen to the sitar being played – or endless Middle Eastern music." He looked across the table at Ruth, and twisted his lips apologetically. "I hadn't planned telling you any of that. Sorry."

"Never be sorry, Harry."

"I was one of seven English prisoners who were granted amnesty. After fifteen months in detention, I was free. I couldn't go back home. I could barely look after myself. I'd spent fifteen months having absolutely no control over any aspect of my life. Hope took me back to her place – a rural property she and her husband had owned in North Carolina. She helped me come to terms with what had happened to me. She gave me a place to fall apart, and then to slowly put myself back together again. During that time I moved into her bedroom with her. It was her idea, and I agreed with her. I needed to know whether I could still function …... as a man."

"You mean sexually."

"Yes, Ruth. I mean sexually."

"And you …... could?"

"After a few months, yes. At first, I couldn't bear her to touch me, anywhere, but especially …... there. I'd pull away, and get out of bed, and rage around the house, getting rid of my anger. Eventually, I …... got there. I managed to be …... normal again. I'm telling you this, Ruth, because you need to know."

"Why? I don't understand any of this. What about Hope?"

"Hope was my George."

Ruth sat back with a start. It was like he had slapped her. "Don't bring George into this. George is dead."

"So is Hope."

Ruth stared at him in an effort to take it all in.

"What happened to her?"

"I'd been out of detention for around ten months, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. No sooner had she nursed me back to health than I had to look after her until she died."

"Calum said you'd married."

"No, we never married. Hope wanted us to be married, but I always made vague excuses. It was only when she was diagnosed as terminal - when cancer was found in her lungs - that I told her about you. I had to be honest with her. I even showed her your photo – the one I carry in my wallet. On being released from detention, my personal possessions were returned to me."

Ruth was silent for some time. She had dozens of questions, but one stood out above all others. She shouldn't ask it, but she had to. She needed to know.

"Did you love her?" she asked quietly.

Harry smiled across the table into her eyes. "Touché," he said. "If I tell you the truth, will you tell me the truth about whether you loved George?"

"Fair's fair. Did you love her?"

"In a way, yes. I loved her warmth, and her unconditional love for me. I loved how she looked after me, but I didn't love her enough to marry her. That would never have happened. You?"

"You're right. It sounds like she was your George. She did for you what George had done for me. He put me back together again, so that I could go on. I loved him, but had you come to Cyprus looking for me, I would have gone with you in a heartbeat. George was a good man. In some ways, he was too good for me. I think ... I think I've always needed someone who was flawed, like me."

Harry reached his hand across the table, but he could not reach her hand, so he quickly withdrew it. "Thank you, Ruth," he said. "I arranged Hope's funeral, and then dealt with her estate. Around six months after her death, I had done everything I could for her. I left the US, and wandered around Europe for a couple of months until I knew it was time for me to come home. I had a lot to sort out back here, but at the back of my mind was one thing. When I had my housing and my income sorted, and once I'd reconnected with my son and daughter, I had to find you. It wasn't until I met Calum that I was given the piece of information I'd been searching for."

Suddenly, Ruth remembered something, something she'd been told while she was still in hospital recovering from her stab wound. She looked up at Harry, and waited until she had his full attention.

"I didn't find out about your extradition until I'd been in hospital for around ten days. I asked Towers why you hadn't visited me, and he told me that you'd believed me to have died at the scene of my stabbing. But …... everything you're telling me points to that not being the case."

"At the time you were airlifted to hospital, I believed you'd died, yes."

"Oh, Harry, I'm so, so sorry."

"I was very …... I was grief stricken, and I went home, and poured whiskey down my throat until I passed out. Towers woke me at six in the morning, telling me that I was being extradited at eleven o'clock, and almost as an afterthought, he told me that you had been revived in the helicopter. I was too hungover to be angry, but I did briefly consider going to the hospital, and kidnapping you, and then running off somewhere the CIA couldn't find us."

"You must have been _very_ hungover."

"I was. After Towers left, I rang the hospital to check on your condition, and they said that you were unconscious, and could not receive visitors. It was one of the highest …... and the lowest …... moments of my life. Such joy that you had lived, and could get on with your life as normal, but such sadness that I wouldn't be free to share it with you."

They had spent a long and rather difficult two hours sharing their hidden years. Ruth was tired, but she's wasn't _that_ tired. Harry's story of finding out she was alive only a few hours before he would be taken by the CIA had brought tears close to the surface. She was determined to not cry in front of Harry. He'd already lived through enough. She could cry once he left. It's just that everything he had told her that night pointed to one thing, and one thing only.

"Harry …..."

"Yes?" Strangely, he looked nervous.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I _am_ saying something, Ruth. What do you think it is?"

"Since you're not married …... and I'd assumed you were, since Calum told me so -"

"Calum is not the source of all wisdom, Ruth."

"So it seems. Am I right to assume that your feelings for me …... for us …... have not changed in five years? Harry, are you here because you still want what I offered you that day I was stabbed?"

Harry's face broke into a wide smile. "I thought you'd never get it. Yes, Ruth, that's what I'm saying."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry's cottage – 2 days later – Late evening:

Ruth was lying on her back under the duvet in the double bed in the spare room of Harry's cottage. He had picked her up after work, and taken her home, where she'd already packed her bags for four days at his cottage. She only worked three days a week, and was not due back in the shop until Monday.

She could hear him in the bedroom next door, as he moved around his room, preparing for bed. She was under no illusions about how they would fit together as live-in companions. She was aware of him being different from the man he'd been five years earlier, but underneath it all, he was still Harry. The man himself was still there, still alive, his heart still beating, his ability to love and be loved by another still alive as a drive from deep within him. Ruth knew she had the late Hope to thank for that. As confronted as she was by this realisation, she had to accept that she owed Hope McKay a debt of gratitude. The woman had – quite unselfishly – prepared Harry to rejoin the world, and she, Ruth, would most likely be the one reaping the benefits.

A few hours later, Ruth was woken by noises from Harry's room. She lifted her head from the pillow, and listened. It sounded to her like the low keening of a nighttime wind, but it came from inside the room next door. She got out of bed, and put on her robe and slippers. A quick look at her phone told her that it was 3.37. The air in the hallway was cold. Ruth stood for a moment outside Harry's closed door, her dilemma being whether she should go in to Harry, or go back to her own bed. He was not crying, nor was he shouting.

Harry was wailing …... quietly, steadily, continually.

Ruth couldn't stand there and just listen. She gently knocked on his door, then she entered the room. She stood inside for a moment, giving her eyes time to adjust to the darkened room, and to get her bearings. Harry lay on his side under the duvet, his body curled into a ball. She could just see the top of his head. The rest of him was covered by the duvet.

She could stand there all night, or she could do something to help him. Deciding to trust her instincts, Ruth walked around to the other side of the bed, removed her bathrobe, and draped it over the end of the bed, and then removed each of her slippers by edging them off with the toes of her other foot. She then crawled under the duvet, and slid across the mattress until she was close enough to Harry to touch him. She was just about to reach out to put her arms around him, when she stopped. What if he slept naked? What then? Well, she'd be putting her arms around a naked man, then, wouldn't she? Very slowly and carefully, she reached for him, at the same time as she spoke his name.

"Harry? Harry, it's Ruth. I'm here."

It made no difference. It was clear to her that he couldn't hear her, so she slid closer still, until her body was wrapped around his, and she reached further with her arms, and wrapped them around him, so that she held him against her. Harry's body was deceptively bulky. Whilst he had lost a noticeable amount of weight since she had seen him last, he was still solid, and he still had a middle-aged belly. She liked the feel of him – both his belly under her hands, and his wide back against her chest. Whilst she was the one providing comfort to him, she also felt safer lying in the shadow of his body. She hoped she'd be free to lie there, like that, for the remainder of their lives. Harry may no longer be the force of nature he had once been, but he still felt strong, and solid, and reliable, and …... yes, healthy. Despite his ordeal, he felt healthy.

After a few minutes, Ruth felt some of the tension leave him, as his body unwound, and the continual sounds from his throat grew quieter, and then were silenced.

"I'm here, Harry," she said, and lay her cheek against his back, over where his heart beat steadily.

She had not ever been this close to Harry. Even the time they'd kissed goodbye the morning she'd gone into exile, they'd each worn layers of clothes, to stave off the cold. Here, in his bed, all she wore were flannel pyjamas, and while her hands touched Harry's t-shirt, her toes felt the soft, thick material of his track pants. She slid her toes down his legs until she captured his feet between her own. His feet, like the rest of him, were hot, even a little sweaty.

She'd almost forgotten his smell. He smelt wonderful. To Ruth, he smelled like strength and bravery and a little foolishness, along with honesty, stoicism, and the barest hint of sexiness. How could she have believed that she could begin again, and live a life without Harry in it? A life without Harry was barely a life at all.

Both she and Harry fell into a deep sleep, her arms wrapped around him, her body pressed along his back, her thighs tucked up under his own thighs, so that his buttocks nestled in the curve between her stomach and thighs. Ruth couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so well.

* * *

When Ruth woke, the bedroom was light enough to see clearly, and when she turned her head, she saw Harry lying beside her, gazing at her.

"Did I miss something?" he said, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth.

"You mean, you don't remember?"

"Was I good?"

Ruth burst out laughing, but stopped when she noticed the frown forming between his eyebrows.

"You really don't remember, do you?"

He shook his head, and this time, she read embarrassment in his facial expression. It seemed, he suspected what she was about to tell him.

"You were …... wailing, Harry. You …... were making this noise, and I came in to offer you …... comfort."

He nodded, and then turned, so that he lay on his side, facing her.

"What kind of comfort?"

"I got into bed, and I held you. It seemed to help."

He nodded. "Yes, that helps. It helps me to know I'm not in solitary. I need to know I'm not alone."

"Did you not remember?"

"Did I talk to you?"

"No. You didn't wake, but you settled once I put my arms around you."

"Thank you, Ruth."

"Does that always happen?"

"I don't know. Since Hope, I sleep alone, so I don't know. I sometimes dream that I'm back there, but I don't always remember the dreams …... unless I wake up. I think they're triggered by stress."

"Are you stressed, Harry? Is my being here stressful for you?"

He rolled on to his back, and then rubbed his forehead with the fingers of one hand. "I wouldn't have thought so, but I'm nervous ….. about you being here."

"Why? You invited me here. It's your idea."

"I know it is, but I don't want to mess it up. I don't want you to leave because I'm ….. too changed by my incarceration ….. and I _am_ changed, but inside, I'm still the same man."

"I know you are."

"I don't want you leaving because you consider me to be too difficult to be with."

"Harry …... look at me." Ruth waited until he had turned again to face her. "I'm here because I want to be, and I won't take off at the first hint of difficulty. We have always been difficult, Harry, but that's what makes us worth it. I need you just as much as you need me. I have no intention of walking away from you …... not after all this time." Ruth looked down while she chose her words, and then she again looked up into his eyes. "During the past 5 years, I've thought about this ... the possibility of us finding one another, and by some miracle, us both being free to be together. Long ago, I decided that even if we struggled with one another, for whatever reason, I'd not back down. We've come this far, you and I, and to give up when things got tough between us would not be respectful to our shared past." She watched him carefully, and seeing his interest, she continued. "We know one another better than we know anyone else on this planet. You were my closest friend, and while you were gone, I missed you ... so much. I don't want to miss you ever again."

She reached across and rested her hand on his cheek, feeling the light prickle of stubble against her palm. He then lifted his own hand and placed it over hers, holding her palm against the skin of his cheek. She had a strong urge to kiss him, but she thought it best she leave that for another time. She was lying next to Harry in his bed, and perhaps that was enough for him to be dealing with for the moment. There would be other days.


	4. Chapter 4

"That's really easy," Harry said, placing his hands on his hips, and gazing at his handiwork. "I've always enjoyed the breasts." He looked across at Ruth, who rolled her eyes, and then shook her head.

"Is it my imagination, or are you feeling more relaxed with me here?" she said, smiling up into his eyes.

"I suppose you're right. I've always resisted learning how too cook properly, but you make these lessons fun, Ruth."

"That's just because you can freely prattle on about breasts and thighs and -"

"I hadn't meant to offend you when I mentioned needing to part the bird's thighs," he added, a distinct twinkle in his eye, as he watched Ruth try to hide her embarrassment.

This was only their third day together, and Harry would be driving her back to Ipswich in the morning for her to work, and they have not yet talked about whether her delightful, idyllic visit to Harry's cottage would be repeated any time soon.

They have walked into the village and bought food and wine, and each afternoon, Ruth has chosen a different dish to teach Harry to cook. That day – Sunday – it was roast chicken and vegetables. Ruth had been continually surprised by how a highly intelligent man like Harry had managed to survive for so long living on his own, with only a few very basic culinary skills.

"I can cook eggs in a thousand different ways, Ruth," he had assured her on her first afternoon in his house with him. It had begun raining at midday, and so a walk was out of the question. When Ruth had suggested she teach him how to cook, Harry had brightened considerably. It turned out that he was an enthusiastic student. On that first afternoon, Ruth had taught Harry how to make frittatas.

"It's not only healthy, but it's easy, and you can throw in your leftover roast meat and vegetables."

"I normally don't have any leftovers in the fridge, Ruth."

"So your incarceration didn't curb your appetite?"

"No, Ruth. Not in the long term. I am once more a man with healthy appetites."

Harry had gazed into Ruth's eyes just a little longer than necessary, and she'd been the one to look away first. He had been making occasional comments such as that since the first morning, when they'd woken up together in his bed. Ruth hoped he'd not expect her to be the one to suggest they move their relationship to the next level of intimacy. By her third day there, they were yet to have kissed. Surely, she wouldn't have to be the one to initiate kissing. What had happened to Harry, the Lothario?

They were getting closer, and she was sure that all it needed was a suggestion from her that they take the next step, and they'd be doing more than just sleeping together in the same bed.

Since her first night under Harry's roof, Ruth had slept each night in his bed with him.

"Just in case you need me," she'd said when she'd suggested it on her second night there.

She waited until he had turned out the light, and turned on his side, facing away from her. She recognised his action as an invitation for her to slide closer to him, and put her arms around him. Each night, she'd waited until she heard his breathing deepen, and then she moved close to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, and her body along the curve of his back. Lying close to him made her feel safe and warm and wanted, and since she had been sleeping with him in his bed, the nighttime keening had stopped.

* * *

On the Monday morning, they shared their first kiss since they had parted on the bank of the Thames almost five years earlier, when Harry was first taken by members of the US secret service.

Harry drove Ruth to Ipswich, carried her bags into her flat, and then made them a cup of tea, while she changed into her work clothes.

"I can drive you to work, Ruth. It will give us more time together."

She smiled as she sipped her tea, aware that they hadn't made plans for her to visit him any time in the future. Should she be the one to bring it up? She didn't wish to come across as being insecure and desperate, but perhaps Harry expected her to make the first move.

_Well, here goes,_ she thought, as she carefully placed her tea cup in the centre of the saucer.

"Harry ….."

"Ruth …..."

They each spoke the other's name at the same time, looked up, and gave a small laugh to cover their discomfort.

"You go first."

"No, you."

They waited, watching the other in their peripheral vision. _I'll just shut up_, she thought. _Then he'll have to say something._

Eventually, Harry spoke.

"Ruth," he began, "these last four days have been the happiest days for me since our time working on the Grid together. I've …... really enjoyed your company."

"I have also, Harry. I also ... found it enjoyable."

"I was wondering …... whether …..."

"Yes."

"I haven't asked you anything yet."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I was …... wondering ….." Harry lifted his head to look into Ruth's eyes, and then, seeing her interest, he again dropped his gaze to the teapot. "I was wondering if you want to …..."

"If you're asking me to spend this next weekend with you at your cottage, then the answer is yes." Noticing the surprise on his face, she kept going. "But if that's not what you're asking me, then I've just made a fool of myself."

"You're not the fool, Ruth. I am. Ever since …... that first morning after I woke up to find you in my bed …... I've wanted to ask you to stay. I bought the cottage in the hope that some day we could live there ….. the two of us."

Ruth smiles and nods. "That's what I was saying yes to. I thought you'd never ask."

"I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice …... at this sort of thing."

"Which is what exactly?"

"Asking a woman to live with me."

"I thought that – last Tuesday night, when you came to my flat – that you were offering me …... a life ….. with you, in your cottage. Did I get that right?"

He nodded. "You did."

"Then, I can't be expected to read your mind, Harry. If you want me there, you have to tell me …... ask me …... remind me of what we're doing here. I can't just invite myself into your living space."

Harry again nodded, and then he looked down at his tea cup, running his fingers up and down the handle. "It's just that, when I was released from detention, Hope took over the details of my life. She looked after me, fed me, and did everything for me. I haven't worked since then, and I certainly haven't tried dating anyone …... until now."

"We're dating?"

"Hardly, Ruth. I think we're a bit beyond that. Don't you?"

"I suppose we are. So …... where are we exactly, because I have no idea."

Ruth watched as Harry played with his tea cup, turning it around on the saucer. She wanted to reach out and still his nervous fingers by wrapping them in her own. She wanted to reassure him that her answer was always going to be yes. He lifted the cup to take another sip of tea, and then put it down again. Then, as though he had a sudden burst of inspiration, he lifted his eyes to look at her. He then got up, and strode around the table to her side, grasped her hand in his, and lifted her from her chair. He then took both her hands in his, and wrapped them around his waist, so that they were standing belly to belly, chest to chest. Then he drew her face to his with one hand, while his other hand snaked around her waist. And then he kissed her. Thoroughly. Headily. Excitingly. Far too passionately for eight o'clock on a Monday morning, but she couldn't complain. She had her eyes closed, and she was kissing Harry …... for the first time in almost five years …... and it was wonderful. His lips, his tongue, his hands were …... sublime.

"Do you know now?" he asked, when he'd lifted his face from hers, smiling into her eyes.

"Does that mean we're engaged?" she asked, her heart still beating rapidly like a bird's.

Harry chuckled, still smiling. "People our age don't bother with engagements, Ruth. They make commitments to one another, and I've been committed to you since we had dinner together …... all those years ago."

"Over ten years ago."

"As I said, all those years ago."

"But what about Hope? Were you not committed to her?"

"No, Ruth. I was only with her for the time I had to be. It was never going to be a lifetime thing, and I always knew that. We, on the other hand …..."

Ruth lifted her eyebrows, waiting for him to complete his thought process.

Harry breathed in deeply, his chest and belly pressing against her, and then he breathed out heavily, watching her closely. "We've always been a couple, Ruth. It's just that we've spent most of the past ten years apart. We've had to each go out into the world and find other people, be exiled, gaoled, lost, beaten, disconnected …... so that we could again find one another, and put ourselves back together again ….. but this time, with each other."

This time, it was Ruth who initiated the kiss. She took both her hands, and held Harry's face between them. She kissed him gently – a dragonfly breath kind of kiss. It wouldn't do for their passions to be ignited, not when she was due at work in twenty minutes.

* * *

"Do you want to come inside and see where I spend my working day?" Ruth asked, once he'd parked his car in the lane behind the book shop.

Harry nodded eagerly. He believed that in their future, he'd probably be saying yes to her a lot. He couldn't resist her.

"This is it," she said, as he entered her office after her, and looked around the room. It was about the size of a small bedroom, with two desks, and a desktop computer on each. "This is my desk." Ruth pointed to the desk which was covered in all kinds of paraphernalia.

Harry smiled, remembering her desk on the Grid.

"Oh, sorry," a voice said from the doorway.

"Gabby, it's alright. Come in and meet Harry."

Ruth introduced Harry to Gabby with the words, `This is Harry.' Harry offered his hand to her to shake, and she seemed a little embarrassed to be shaking his hand, especially after the way he and Ruth had behaved only six days ago. Was he her boyfriend? Well, he was hardly a boy, was he? Perhaps he was Ruth's husband. Ruth was certainly a mystery to Gabby. She had begun to think of her as The Woman With No Past.

Gabby made her excuses, and left the office, while Ruth said goodbye to her man.

"I'll come and pick you up after work on Thursday," Harry said, between kisses.

"Pick me up at home. It's easier."

Harry was just about to leave, when Ruth called him back. "What would you say if I could arrange to work from home? I don't have to be here physically to be able to do this work. That way …... if you'd like …... I could get rid of my place, and perhaps then I could …..."

Harry answered with a wide smile, and he took two strides back into the office, and kissed Ruth again.

"That would be …... wonderful," he said, before he kissed Ruth one more time, and then left, turning in the doorway, and watching, while Ruth settled herself at her desk.

* * *

Ruth had no cause to speak to Gabby until morning tea time, when the younger woman brought her a cup of tea and some biscuits.

"What's with Harry?" Gabby asked, watching Ruth carefully for any kind of unconscious reaction. Gabby was young, she even wore a nose ring (and a belly-button stud, and a tongue stud, neither of which she wore while she worked) …... people of Ruth's age – and the age of their boss, Rebecca – were a mystery to her. Did people their age even have sex, or are they well past it? She tried to imagine Ruth having sex with this Harry bloke, and she could only imagine it being an awkward and ungainly experience. Wouldn't it? And how do you ask an old person a question like that?

"Harry? I've known him for forever. We used to work together, and then …... we just …... lost touch."

"And now you're in touch again, right?"

"Yes. We are."

Gabby waited for more, but Ruth wasn't sharing any more. _Damn_! Gabby loved a good love story, and she had a feeling that with Ruth and her Harry, there was a story worth telling. Perhaps one day.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Thanks to readers, and to all who have continued to review. This is the second last chapter.**_

* * *

Harry's cottage – 3 days later – evening:

Ruth had believed that Harry was still downstairs, so when she entered the bathroom to find him standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing only a pair of pale grey tracksuit bottoms, she hesitated, not sure of the correct protocol. Seeing her reflection in the mirror, Harry quickly reached to grab his bathrobe, which was draped over the back of a chair, but Ruth had already seen what he was clearly trying to hide.

"Don't cover yourself, Harry," she said, stepping further into the room.

Harry stood with his back to her, his bathrobe in his hands, his eyes holding hers in the mirror. Ruth knew Harry well enough to read the embarrassment and barely disguised shame in his eyes. Harry did not wish her to see his naked torso, and she could see why.

Across the middle of his back, and down to the waistband of his track pants, she counted around six red marks, each a little larger than a man's thumbnail. They were either from burns, or electric shocks. Harry had been checking the scars on his chest, and as she slowly drew closer to him, she noticed him covering his chest with the palm of one hand.

As she approached him, and the light from above the bathroom mirror illuminated his chest, she could see the scars which ran from somewhere on his chest to his sides. There were perhaps six or seven of these scars – slightly raised in weals.

"What did they do to you, Harry?" she asked, swallowing her tears. Now was not the time to be breaking down. He needed her to be strong.

When she reached his side, she placed the palm of one had on his lower back, over three of the burn marks. Then she leaned down, and placed her lips on each of these marks. Then she stepped closer to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, just as she had when they had slept together, but this time his skin was not hidden beneath his maroon t-shirt. When Ruth looked up, and met his eyes in the mirror, she saw the sheen of tears in them.

"I'm so sorry, Ruth."

"For what?" she whispered, still holding him to her.

"I ….. when I kidnapped Coaver, I wasn't thinking of this – of us, of you. I wasn't thinking straight."

"I know."

"Had I not done that, had I not insisted he be picked up, he may not have died, and chances are I'd not have been detained, and you wouldn't now be looking at the scarred body of a damaged man."

"I know you're not perfect, but nor am I. I'm no longer a young woman, Harry."

"I think you're beautiful."

Ruth smiled at his eyes in the mirror, and then the light caught a tear which rolled down his cheek, and to his jaw. He quickly brushed away the tear with his fingers. She then pulled away from him, still maintaining contact with him by resting her hands on his waist.

"Turn around, Harry. Let me see your chest."

Harry sighed heavily, clearly uncomfortable, but knowing that Ruth, being the stubborn mule she was, would not stop asking until he gave in to her wishes. Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes holding hers. Ruth touched his chest with the tips of her fingers, tracing every scar – including the old ones. She found four more burns, all on his sides, just above his hips.

"They put electrodes on me, Ruth. They began on my sides, and then graduated to my back, and lastly, they attached them to my balls. That hurt ….. a lot."

"So, you have burns on the skin of your testicles."

Harry nodded. "I'm not about to show them to you right now. They're not my prettiest feature."

She smiled up at him. "I can wait."

Deciding that they'd talked enough, Ruth stepped close to Harry, and wound her arms around him, pulling him against her, so that she could lay her temple against his chin. She could feel the resistance in his body, but the longer she held him, the less tense he became, until eventually, he put his arms around her shoulders, and they stood in a close embrace, in the bathroom, for a long time. As they stood there, Ruth intermittently rubbed the middle of his back with the palms of her hands, and then she felt Harry respond by kissing her temple.

Much later, Harry had gone back downstairs to lock up, and check that the fire in the grate had burned down, while Ruth prepared for bed. She'd previously worn flannel pyjamas, which covered her from neck to ankles. On this night, she opted for a white camisole, and her black knickers. She slid under the duvet, with only her head and shoulders showing.

When Harry entered the bedroom, he placed a mug of hot chocolate on her bedside table, and a glass of whiskey on his own. Ruth sat up, welcoming the warm, milky liquid, as she drank it greedily.

"I thought you'd prefer that to a whiskey," Harry explained, sitting in bed beside Ruth, sipping his drink, and trying hard to not stare at the bare flesh of Ruth's chest and shoulders. "Aren't you cold?" he asked her at last.

Ruth shook her head. "Not now you're here."

Harry chose to ignore that. In truth, he was unsure what was expected of him. It was unlike him to be shy in bed, but the last five years of his life had hardly been normal, and for so long, his longing for Ruth had taken place inside his head. Having her lying next to him in bed, giving non-verbal signals that she would like them to become closer – much closer – was overwhelming for him.

"I don't expect anything yet, Harry. I know you're embarrassed about your body, but that isn't an issue for me at all. I'll wait until you're ready."

"But you won't wait forever," he murmured, having swallowed the last of his whiskey in one gulp.

"Actually, I probably will, but I don't want to have to. I'm hoping you trust me enough to …..." and the remainder of her sentence was swallowed up by a yawn. "God, sorry," she said. "I'm not bored ….. just tired."

Harry leaned towards her, and gave her a quick goodnight kiss, and then he turned off the light. They both fell quickly asleep.

* * *

Ruth awoke to an empty bed. It was not quite daylight, so Harry was living up to his reputation of being an early riser. Giving in to the demands of her bladder, Ruth got out of bed and visited the toilet and then the bathroom. Deciding that a shower and a change of clothes might do the trick, Ruth headed into the bedroom for a fresh camisole and a clean pair of knickers. She luxuriated under the shower, soaping herself all over, and then standing under the hot water until her skin stung, and then reddened. She dried off, changed into the knickers and camisole, donned her bathrobe, and headed back into the bedroom. Harry had already returned to bed, and was waiting for her. She walked around the bed, and climbed in beside him, shuffling across the mattress until she was lying against his warmth.

"You smell nice," he said, sliding his arm around her.

"So do you …... and you've shaved." Ruth reached her hand out from under the duvet to brush her fingers across Harry's jaw. "Smooth," she said.

"It's about the only part of me that is these days."

_Ah …... so that's where we are._ Ruth was hoping that this morning will be the one where they take their relationship over the hump, so to speak. Given what had happened to Harry while he was in detention, he needed to have some say in the matter. It could be disastrous were she to take charge, leaving him with little control over what was happening and when.

"Harry …..." Ruth began, with little idea of where to go next. "Would you like us to make love?"

Ruth's question was met with an uncomfortable silence, but she had to give him time to sort out his response. She felt Harry turn to face her, and so she met his eyes with her own. His pupils were dilated, but his expression was one of those unreadable, Harry-the-spook expressions.

"You know I do, Ruth. I've wanted to since the day I walked into the book shop, and you came through your office door, and stood there, staring at me. In your eyes I saw a reflection of everything I was feeling. I wanted to leap across the counter, and make love to you right there."

Ruth smiled at the mental image. It was a good start.

"I haven't been sure about what you wanted, Ruth." He shuffled a little, withdrawing his arm from around her shoulders, while draping his other arm over her hip, and pulling her closer to him. "And I'm out of practice. I want us to be closer to one another, but …."

"You don't know how to go about it?"

"Of course, I _know_ …... I don't want you to find me …... crude."

Ruth watched his face, searching for clues. He'd have to give her more than that.

"I'm afraid that my …... desire for you will have everything happening too fast, and you might not …... enjoy it."

"Then …... we wait until you've recovered, and we do it again. And we keep doing it until we get it right." Ruth reached up and kissed him, a quick, no-nonsense kiss.

"Is it that easy?"

"No, probably not, but it's just sex, Harry, and as you haven't forgotten how to do it – for which I am extremely relieved – we just need to go ahead and dive in the deep end, and hope that we come out the other end with all our fingers and toes... and other necessary bits …... intact."

That was all it had needed. The light-hearted, let's-get-on-with-it approach had worked. Harry smiled into her eyes, and then reached down to kiss her. This time it was a proper kiss, and as she opened her mouth under his, while he wrapped both arms around her, and pulled her to him. They kissed once, twice, thrice, and more, and while they did, Ruth's hands found the bare flesh under his t-shirt, and his hands wandered to her bottom, where he ran his fingers over the lace of her underwear, before venturing under the garment itself, sending a flash of heat through Ruth's whole body.

When Ruth pulled away from him a little, and drew the cotton material of his shirt up his chest, and over his head, she leaned back even further, giving Harry the space to do the same for her. Chest to chest, they kissed again, and if the hardness of his arousal against her thigh was anything to go by, they were off to a promising start.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: M-ish talk at the beginning of this chapter. This is more epilogue than chapter. Thanks to all who followed this story to completion, and of course, a big thank you to reviewers.  
**_

* * *

It hadn't been perfect, but she hadn't expected perfect. She and Harry were such a long way from perfect themselves, but they were together, had survived their first time making love – and it had been love, and not just sex – and were wrapped in a hot, sweaty, post-loving embrace, their breathing still coming in gasps.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, once they had quietened.

"For what, Ruth? For loving you?"

"For trusting me. I know it was easier for you to keep anticipating ….. what we just did …. rather than just getting on with it."

Ruth felt the rumble in his chest as he laughed lightly. She also felt the feather-light touch of his fingers, as he brushed the skin of her upper arm – up and down, in an unconscious action – and shivered a little at his touch.

"You're right, of course. Do you think …...?"

"What?"

"Do you think that we didn't get around to it all those years ago because it was easier for it to remain ….. something we each longed for, and anticipated? While it was something we hadn't yet done, it was somehow …..."

"Sweeter?"

"Mmm, yes."

"But we now know that's not true …... don't we?"

Harry took so long replying that Ruth suspected he'd fallen asleep. She pulled her head away from his shoulder, and looked at him. He was watching her, a small smile on his lips. He reached down, and kissed her lightly, his lips barely touching hers.

"So, you enjoyed that? Is that what you're saying?"

"Of course I enjoyed it, Harry. At least I did once you allowed me to take off your pants." Ruth kept watching his face, searching for a sign ….. of anything at all. Harry had been a spook for so long, he was even a spook while in bed with her. "What was that about? We could hardly have made love while you kept your track pants on."

Again, Harry took his time replying.

"I …. was waiting until you were no longer looking. I wanted to remove them and then ….. enter you without you seeing the damage to my testicles. I …... when I'm erect, you can …... well, you know."

"Harry, I hadn't taken you for a prude."

"I didn't think I was."

"You don't want me to see your testicles, so you keep your track pants on. Can you see the difficulty that would present?"

"I'd planned to remove them, but only once you were no longer watching."

"It might surprise you to know that it wasn't your balls I was wanting to see."

Harry's smile lit up his face, and relaxed his whole body, as he pulled her against him, and kissed her forehead.

"That's one of the reasons I love you," he said enigmatically.

"Because I prefer your cock to your balls?"

"Yes, there's that, but …... I love it when you call me on my stupidity. I might not always enjoy hearing it, but you're always right."

"I have yet to meet a heterosexual woman who prefers a man's balls to his cock. I would have thought you had already discovered that for yourself, Harry."

Harry had begun chuckling, and had to lie on his back while he laughed away his tension. They'd done it, and it wasn't a disaster, and for that, he was very thankful and relieved, but most of all, he was happy …... incredibly happy.

* * *

That evening, Harry took Ruth out to dinner at the pub in the village. They drove into the village, because rain had been threatening all day, and just before seven o'clock, it had started teeming. He introduced her to two couples he'd met before Ruth had come to live with him.

"This is Ruth," he said, after he'd introduced her to Lyle and Beverley, and Paul and Caroline.

All four people were somewhere between their late forties and early sixties. Ruth found it hard to determine people's ages at the best of times. Harry was almost 63, and he barely looked older than mid fifties. While the others talked, she found herself watching him, admiring how easily he fitted in to the conversation between the other four. When he caught her watching him, he grasped her hand, and lifted it to his lips, while he held her eyes as he kissed each of her fingers.

"Lyle, did you see that?" Beverley observed. "That's what I mean by romantic. Buying a ride-on lawnmower for us both for our wedding anniversary was not a romantic gesture. Why is it you can't see that?"

Conversation flowed easily between the three couples, as they talked of the weather, the village fete – which had been held in mid-August – whether a week in Spain is cheaper than a week in Italy, the wine, the rugby. Ruth didn't care much what they talked about, although she noticed that no-one mentioned the jobs people did, or had done. Her fears from long ago about what they should talk about to the neighbours were just that – fears. At that time, her _real_ fear had been that she and Harry might not last, and that they would invest their money and hopes into a life together, and that dream would dissolve like the first snow of the season. For the first time, Ruth could see she and Harry living like this for the remainder of their days. They were not perfect, but that was one of the reasons they were so good together.

They arrived home rather late, and fell into bed. Harry made a few moves towards her, but he fell asleep before they became anything more than fumbling under the duvet. Ruth enjoyed it anyway.

* * *

In mid October, Ruth worked her last day in the book shop in Ipswich. At the end of her final day, she drove Harry's Range Rover home, her desktop computer from work stored in the back. When she arrived home, Harry carried the computer and monitor into the cottage, and set it up on a small table he'd bought the previous weekend. Ruth's office was a corner of the living room, and with winter coming on, she'd need to be close to him, and close to the open fire.

She could work as many or few days as she wished, so long as she got through the online orders within a week of them being received.

"I'll still have time for you," she told Harry, as she opened the program, and got to work, with another hour left before dinner, "and I can even work during the night."

"What do I do when you're doing your own impression of an owl?"

"I suggest you get as much sleep as you can, because …... well …... you know why."

Harry smiled across at her before he headed to the kitchen to cook dinner. He'd never expected Ruth to be a demanding lover, but he was not about to complain about it.

* * *

On Harry's 63rd birthday in November, Ruth gave Harry a long-haired Jack Russell terrier. He was surprised and overjoyed, and held the puppy close to him so that it could lick his face.

"What's his name?" Harry asked.

"He's a she, and she's yours, Harry, so you have to choose."

Harry took most of the day trying to find a name for the dog. Scarlet wasn't right somehow. He tried Mandy for almost an hour, until Ruth objected to the name on principle.

"It sounds like the name of your first girlfriend," she said.

"I don't remember the name of my first girlfriend."

"You don't? Everyone remembers the name of their first love."

"I don't."

"Why?"

"Because since I met you, none of the others – the ones I cared about before you – matter any more."

Ruth crossed the floor to kiss him, and for a few minutes, the new puppy was forgotten.

They were sitting over dinner, and Harry was feeding scraps of meat to the puppy, when inspiration struck.

"Blossom!" he exclaimed, out of the blue, and when the puppy sat up and looked at him, he knew he'd found her name.

So, Blossom she was.

* * *

On their first Christmas together as a couple, Harry asked Ruth to marry him, and she hesitated, before replying with a quiet `maybe'.

In late April, they spent a week in Paris. Their closest neighbour, a widow called Pam, offered to look after Blossom while they were away. On Ruth's 47th birthday, Harry proposed to Ruth for the third – and last – time. She waited a few heartbeats before replying, an eternity to Harry, during which he feared his heart might stop altogether, so desperately did he want her to say yes.

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied.

"And?"

"And yes, Harry. Yes a thousand times."

"What took you so long?" he asked quietly.

"I had to be sure."

* * *

In late July, they married in the garden of their own house. Their friends from the village were there, as were Harry's two children, and Calum Reed, his girlfriend, Sheridan, Malcolm Wynn-Jones, Rebecca and Gabby from the bookshop, along with Gabby's boyfriend, Kai. And Blossom, who – thankfully - behaved herself, unlike Kai, who drank too much, flaked out on the sofa, where he remained, until Gabby dragged him out to Rebecca's car for the trip back to Ipswich.

They spent their honeymoon at home. For a couple who had been away, and then come home again, home was where they wanted to be. It was where they belonged.


End file.
